Preparing to stay home with two

I recently gave two weeks notice at the office where I work 20 hours per week and already I'm regretting it. What would normally be my fun 1/2 day Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday with the boy has changed dramatically. Firstly, today is Tuesday and all day I thought it was at least a Thursday. I had a pretty fun morning but couldn't articulate to my husband one thing that we did that didn't seem like a cop out. I could barely get my son to eat anything and his nap ran dangerously close to evening. The one errand I tried to run, mailing a DVD to Argentina, failed miserably. Plus, I got two tiny blisters between my toes. I have officially entered the self-pitying stage of my pregnancy which I call The Eighth Month.

Yesterday, I felt pretty confident about quitting my job. Despite my eight month beach ball, I still couldn't get a seat on the Q train. That seemed like reason enough to throw in the towel. To be honest, I wasn't trying to sit. I guess I thought I could catch a break without even trying. That may be my eighth month motto: give me a break, please.

Now I can spend my days in Brooklyn and only venture into the borough of Manhattan for fun, bite sized activities with my son or the occasional gathering with friends. It's better that I start getting used to it now. It rouses a bit of resentment in me toward my husband who gets to go to work and so forth. I remember once when we were fighting in the morning, when Diego was a newborn, and he left for work. He called me while crossing the Manhattan bridge (on the Q or the B) to say he felt better. He had gained some perspective, he said. The ride away from home and us gave him a chance to relax and think. Just the change of scenery, he said. The freedom and vantage point combined to add clarity to the morning's events. How very glorious. Where is my train away from here? I kept my cool for about five seconds but I would gradually learn to keep my cool over the subsequent months and years. You have to when you're worlds apart and I'm the one who seems to be the lunatic, the mother of a newborn.

Does that happen the second time around?  Will I be the mother of a newborn again, in the sense that I won't make any sense except to other bleary eyed moms like myself? And even then we don't really make sense to each other we just don't care-- there's just another set of bleary eyes watching your kid in case you doze off by accident. I'm not going through that again. Diego's over two years old and I'm still hanging out with complete strangers, sort of. It's the eternal playdate with conversations that I piece together when I get home. There's talking going on but who are you people-- and do I really have to get up just because your kid or mine is clobbering my kid or yours?

In the grand scheme of things, isn't his being potty trained enough? Don't I just accept my award now and go home? Perhaps I lack imagination. For example, the boy can't draw a circle. I guess we could work on that tomorrow... but I'll have to draw the line somewhere.

Originally posted on NYCMomsBlog.